2
Hanson
Of all the things I’d imagined when I’d booked this cruise—rest, anonymity, maybe some uncomplicated sex with a stranger who didn’t know my name, and did I mention rest?—running into Porter Waugh had not been on the list.
And yet here he was, sitting across from me at a high-top table in the Mermaid bar, nursing a beer he’d already critiqued twice, looking like everything I’d spent twenty-five years trying not to think about.
He’d gotten broader. That was the first thing I’d noticed, back on the Lido deck when my brain had still been short-circuiting. He’d been lean at twenty-one—all long limbs and restless energy—and now he was solid. Wide shoulders in that perfectly tight T-shirt, thick forearms, the kind of build that came from years of physical work.
He had a beard now, full and dark with threads of silver running through it, and it suited him so well it almost made me angry. His eyes were the same though. Brown and warm and dangerously direct, the kind of eyes that made you feel like you were the only person in the room.
I’d forgotten what it felt like to be seen by Porter Waugh.
No. That was a lie. I hadn’t forgotten. I’d just gotten good at filing it away.
“So,“
he said, turning his pint glass slowly on the table. “Forestville’s favorite runaway. How’ve you been?”
There it was. Light enough to pass as casual, sharp enough to draw blood. Porter had always been able to wrap something pointed inside something warm and let you decide whether to acknowledge the sting.
“Busy,“
I said. “Good. You know.” I took a sip of my gin and tonic. “You?”
“Oh, fantastic. I opened a brewery. It’s called Holdfast. We’re doing a smoked porter right now that would make you cry.“
He grinned. “No pun intended.”
“Porter makes a porter.”
“I’ve heard every joke. Try me.”
Despite myself, I almost smiled. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“You should try it sometime. If you’re ever in Forestville.“
He said it easily, like an open door he wasn’t going to push me through, and something in my chest tightened.
“You stayed.“
I hadn’t meant it as a question, but it came out like one.
“I stayed.“
No defensiveness. No apology. Just a fact, steady as the man himself. “Built the brewery about twelve years ago and added a taproom in the spring. Started with a homebrew setup in my garage and a certificate from Siebel, and now we’ve got a taproom and distribution across three counties.” He shrugged, but I could see the pride underneath. “It’s a good life.”
“Sounds like it.”
“What about you? Where’d you end up?”
“LA.”
“Doing what?”
“Air traffic control.”
Porter blinked. Then he laughed, a real one, surprised and warm. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
“Hanson Swaim directs planes for a living.”
“At LAX.”
“LAX.“
He shook his head slowly, still grinning. “That’s… I mean, that explains a few things.”
“Like what?”
“Like this.“
He gestured vaguely at me, my posture, my face, all of it. “You look like you haven’t exhaled since 003.”
It landed closer to the bone than he probably intended. Or maybe exactly as close as he intended—with Porter, it was hard to tell. I took another sip of my drink and let the gin burn a clean line down my throat. “It’s a demanding job.”
“I bet.”
A pause settled between us. The ship’s horn sounded—deep, resonant, vibrating through the deck—and a cheer rose from the crowd. We were pulling away from port. I watched the lights of Long Beach slide sideways behind Porter’s head.
No turning back now.
“I have to ask,“
Porter said, and his voice had changed. It was still warm, but with a careful edge. “Are you out? Or is this”—he gestured at the ship around us—“a vacation from real life?”
It was a fair question. It was more than fair, given our history. But it still hit me like a slap. “I’m out. Have been for a few years.”
“A few years.”
“Yeah.”
He nodded slowly. I watched him do the math—twenty-five years since Forestville, out for only a few of them. I watched him decide not to say what he was thinking, which was unlike Porter and told me more about how he was feeling than anything he could have said. “Good,“
he said finally. “That’s good, Hanson.”
“Thanks.“
The word came out flatter than I had intended. I wrapped my hand around my glass and pressed my thumb into my opposite palm under the table where he couldn’t see.
“And you’re here alone? No boyfriend tucked away in a cabin somewhere?”
“No. Solo. You?”
“Solo.“
Porter smiled, and this time it was self-deprecating in a way that made my ribs ache. “Forty-six and single on a cruise. Figured I’d give the universe one more shot before I get a golden retriever and call it a life.”
“You’d be a good dog owner.”
“That’s the saddest compliment anyone’s ever given me.”
I did smile then. I couldn’t help it. And I watched Porter clock it, his eyes tracking the movement of my mouth like he was cataloging it, filing it away. Hanson smiled. Note the time and date.
“You look good, Porter,“
I said because it was true and because I owed him at least that much honesty. “The beard’s new.”
“Grew it at thirty. Never looked back.“
He rubbed his jaw. “Covers a multitude of sins.”
“There’s nothing to cover.“
It came out quieter and more honest than I’d intended. I saw it register on his face with a flicker of surprise, then something softer that he quickly rearranged into a grin.
“Careful, Swaim. I’ve got a whole week to develop an ego.”
The conversation found easier ground after that, or maybe we both steered it there by unspoken agreement. He told me about the brewery, about Forestville, about the way the town had changed and the ways it hadn’t. I told him surface things about LA, about the job, about the commute. We talked about music. About a teacher we’d both hated in high school. About the time we’d gotten caught sneaking into the old sawmill property at sixteen, and we both laughed at that, real laughter, and for a few seconds, it felt like no time had passed at all.
But time had passed. I could feel it in the spaces between our words, all the things we weren’t saying, all the years we weren’t accounting for. The ghost of who we’d been sitting at the table with us—young, stupid, in love—neither of us willing to look at it directly.
A group of guys at the next table erupted in laughter, and I became aware of how long we’d been sitting there. My glass was empty. Porter’s was nearly there. The mixer was thinning out around us as people drifted toward the clubs and late-night bars.
“I should—“
I started.
“Yeah,“
Porter said. “It’s late.”
We stood. Awkwardness descended. Did I hug him? Shake his hand? I did neither. Just stood there, close enough that I could smell him—something warm and yeasty underneath the salt air, brewery and skin—and my chest constricted so hard I had to look away.
“This is surreal,” I said.
“Which part?”
“All of it. You. Here.”
Porter looked at me for a long moment. Steady. Those brown eyes, warm and searching and completely unafraid. “I’m glad you’re here, Hanson,“
he said. Simple. Direct. The most Porter sentence in the world. “Whatever this is, I’m glad.”
I opened my mouth and closed it. Nodded. “Goodnight, Porter.”
“Night.”
I walked back to my cabin on autopilot—down one deck, through a corridor that smelled like carpet cleaner and air conditioning, keycard against the lock, door shut behind me. The cabin was small and quiet. My suitcase was waiting for me inside, delivered while I’d been talking to Porter.
Jesus Christ, Porter was here. On this cruise.
I stepped onto the balcony. The ocean was black and endless, the coastline already a thin strand of light behind us. The wind was cool against my face, and I gripped the railing and let out a breath that felt like it had been sitting in my lungs for twenty-five years.
Porter Waugh. Same brown eyes. Same steady warmth. Same way of looking at me like I was worth looking at.
I pressed my thumb hard into my palm and stared at the dark water. You don’t deserve this. You left him. You don’t get to feel this way.
But I felt it anyway.